


The Road to Rebirth, Lined with Ghosts

by awkward_tendencies



Series: Long Roads Walked [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:20:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkward_tendencies/pseuds/awkward_tendencies
Summary: The Fallout New Vegas Dead Money dlc as experienced by my courier Max
Series: Long Roads Walked [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706299
Kudos: 2





	1. Beginning Again

_“So if life’s worries have weighed you down, if you need an escape from your troubles, or if you just need an opportunity to **begin again** – join us. Let go, and leave the world behind at the Sierra Madre grand opening this October. We’ll be waiting…”_

Max stared at his pipboy, dumbfounded. It couldn’t be. The _Sierra Madre?_ The fairytale he’d followed in his teens? The myth of opportunity planted in his mind by his false shepherd. A ceaseless bounty of old world luxury and riches, lying untouched somewhere in the California mountains.

He’d merely been trying to find something other than Johnny fucking Guitar to listen to, playing with his pipboy’s radio dial, when he came across the alluring broadcast. Cold sweat ran down his spine; with shaky fingers, he tuned in to track the signal’s location.

Descending the ladder into the darkness, the courier clicked on his pipboy light. He’d followed the signal to its source, an old storm drain in the middle of goddamn nowhere. It led to some musty access room, a forgotten maintenance hall from a pre-war sewer system. Thick and musty, the air reeked of decay. A headless corpse sat slumped in the corner, its white jumpsuit stained with blood and brain. Above it, walls covered in graffiti.

_Gone to Sierra Madre… Left my heart in the Sierra Madre… Take me home, Mountain Mama…_

The only other light came up from the floor. In the corner of the room, the concrete gave way to steel hinges. Doors wide open, faint light poured in from the emergency shelter below. A single overhead lamp shone over some glimmering pre-war relic, sitting proudly on a pedestal at the end of the long hallway; beyond it, hung a strange banner – adorned with sword and gears.

With slow steps, the waster walked down the lighted isle. Shiny and gold, the pre-war gizmo seemed to call to him.

Coming through the other side of the corridor, stepping into the bright spotlight, the courier could hear something breathe behind him. He drew his gun; something heavy connected with the back of his skull.

The ground raced up to meet him.

A deep ringing echoed between his ears. Cool brick pressed against his face. With a groan, he reluctantly rolled onto his back. Bringing a hand up to rub his sore neck, his fingers met with cold steel.

 _What the fuck?_ His eyes snapped open, and he dragged himself upright. Instead of the bright lights and rusty halls of the forgotten fallout shelter, he found himself staring up at a star filled sky – dark, brooding, consuming. Encasing him in, a maze of adobe brick and iron gate; directly before him, a glimmering fountain, the ghostly figure of a beautiful lounge singer suspended above the still water. The ghostly woman floated flickering, soundlessly wording a siren song.

His hands wrestled with metal shackle bolted tight around his throat. Swearing furiously, he turned to his satchel for his box of bobby pins – to find it missing from his hip. Gone were his bags and guns, he’d been picked clean. No more were his cowboy hat and duster coat, instead someone had dressed him in an itchy white jumpsuit. He felt violated, naked, and afraid.

_What the fuck had happened? How long had he been out cold? Where the hell was he?_

Lifting his arm to glance at his golden pimpboy, he got quite the shock. He’d been in the middle of the Mojave, on the southern tip of Nevada… but the map on the screen read Central California, placed him near The Hub and the L.A. Boneyard.

The silent siren above the fountain disappeared abruptly. In its place, the stern image of a disheveled old man.

Static filtered through his pipboy’s radio. “Are you listening?” a voice echoed from his wrist, “Good. From now on, when I talk, listen – and follow my instructions.”

It was the old man displayed above fountain. He must’ve been watching him somehow, reaching out to him through the computer strapped to his wrist. The bedazzled radio spewed furious ramblings; the old man never stopped to take a breath. Calling himself “Father”, threatening the courier’s life – this _Elijah_ demanded his help in breaking into the fabled Sierra Madre casino.

But it really couldn’t be, could it? The Sierra Madre wasn’t _real_. It was just a myth that gamblers and thieves told themselves as they wandered the California wastes, drifting from town to town in search of their next big score; the dream of beginning again, finding a life of wanton wealth and luxury free from bloodshed and bullets. Yet above the gated courtyard, seemingly one with the mountain itself, stood a towering monolith of pre-war construction.

“Are you even listening to me?!” his pipboy cried, “Ignore me and I will blow your head off!”

Admittedly, he hadn’t been paying attention – awestruck by the adobe architecture around him, staring bewildered at the proud casino in the distance. “Blow my head off?” he scoffed, “With _what?_ ”

“The collar around your neck, you idiot!” the old man groaned, “It’s like that pipboy on your wrist, except filled with explosives.”

Max’s eyes went wide, again his hands flew to his throat.

“Do what I say, and the collar won’t go off. Refuse, try and run, disobey me? I’ll kill you and find someone else.”

A pawn in the game, that’s all he was to the old man; a disposable tool. Apparently there’d been others. The bunker had been a trap, and he had been one of a dozen or so unfortunate souls that had fallen into it. With Elijah’s grasp firm around his neck, he had no choice but to play along – help another egotistical jackass pull off some grand heist.

“Around the Villa are four other collars like yours – collars 8, 12, 13, and 14. Find them and get them here, to the fountain. Then, we’ll talk more.”


	2. Opening the Cage

The buzzing speaker exploded in a haze of blue light, showering the table with sparks and smoke.

 _Third time’s the charm_ , Max chuckled to himself. It had taken him several tries to hit the damn thing, trying to point the clunky holo-rifle around the doorframe. He hated this stupid thing, all bulky and heavy and awkward – why couldn’t the old man have just given him a simple six gun?

Now that those damn radios had been silenced, he could hear it more clearly. Soft sniffles, scared whimpering, the feeble whines of a long-caged dog. The large holding cell in the middle of the old police department sat empty – save for the mountain of mutilated muscle huddled in the corner; scarred, bloody, rocking back and forth.

He tugged on the cage door, finding it firmly locked… from the inside. _Had this poor nightkin locked itself in here?_ From the look of it, he could easily reach his arms through the bars and get to the lock from the other side. Elijah had taken his satchel, however, meaning he didn’t have any bobby pins. Groaning, he realized that, unless he got lucky, in all likelihood he was going to have to scour this place in hopes of finding a key.

Smoke and smolder caught his attention, and his eyes met the speaker he’d busted. Shoving the wrecked radio onto the floor, Max turned his attention to the prominent desk it had been seated on. Within its old drawers, he found a pair of Smith and Wesson revolvers, complete with a box of bullets – something he was more than happy to ditch the holo-rifle for. Lying on the tabletop, amongst an array of faded folders and paperwork, sat a single weathered holotape. Spinning the thing around and around in his grasp, he couldn’t make out the shaky, gnarled lettering etched into its face; couldn’t tell if it was supposed to read “dog” or “god”.

With a shrug, the courier popped the tape into his pipboy. He jumped at the deep, gravel-wrought voice that suddenly echoed from his wrist.

“Dog, back in the cage!”

He stiffened, frozen where he stood. The crying had stopped…

From behind him, beyond the iron cage, be heard the rustling of metal chain; could practically feel the heavy breathing beating hot on his neck. Gulping nervously, he slowly turned to face the mutant he knew would be waiting for him.

“What do we have here?” The nightkin snarled; the same voice from the tape, dripping with the same sinister spite. “You weren’t who I was expecting. I’m disappointed.”

“Wha-“ the courier sputtered, taking a step back from the prison cell, “what happened to your voice?”

A dark, hideous growl echoed from the mutant’s throat. It looked down upon him with its one working eye, sneered at him as if he were nothing. Thick, bloated fingers wrapped around the steel bars; a mountain of blue muscle, caked in dried blood, draped in iron chain. Every inch of its semi-naked skin spattered with a jagged maze of self-inflicted scars. The same three letters labelling its recorded wake-up call carved into its chest, festering and raw – a gruesome reminder to itself as to what it truly was.

It spoke of itself as both master and pet. A ravenous feral dog fighting against its muzzle; and the one holding the leash, struggling to lock its cage door shut. A ceaseless bloodthirsty hunger held in check by an unyielding greed for control. Like the courier, it too was a slave to Elijah’s will, its beeping shackle collar sitting mangled and twisted in the pit of its stomach.

“Greedy”, it called him, “the clumsy, foolish hand of the old man.” Another fortune-finder following the flirtatious broadcast, another victim lured in the trap – one in a long line of unfortunate fools assaulted, stripped, and dragged all the way here by the ever-obedient _dog_ , doomed to die another human lockpick in the old man’s grand scheme. From within its cage, the beast laughed in his face, taunting. Insisting that, even if the courier tried to resist the aged madman, once he laid eyes on the Sierra Madre for himself, he’d be doomed not only by Elijah’s greed – but by his own.

“Fuck that!” Max spat back, “I didn’t follow that broadcast for no treasure, and I sure as hell ain’t going to be some old man’s toy… some maniac thief’s little ‘lucky charm’,” _Not again_. “How about we go after the old man together.”

The mutant wheezed a sinister chuckle of amusement.

The human eyed the mutant. “I’m serious. Our fucking collars are connected, remember? So the only way we get outta this is together…”

“I’m not going anywhere with _you_ ,” it sneered, mangled face plastered with a smug smirk. “Run along now, boy. Go fetch your master.”

He had had enough; thinking fast, he took confident steps closer to the cage. “You _will_ open that cage for me, one way or another. I’ll bet the dog will be more willing to listen to me, to his _master’s_ voice.” He held up the golden computer on his wrist, “I can tune into the old man with this baby – and I’m willing to bet that, if my pipboy’s what wakes _you_ up, it’ll also work in waking _him_ up.”

“You… don’t you _dare,_ ” the beast roared, pressing itself into the bars, “If you do, I’ll find a way to get out of this cage, and end you. I’ll murder you, crush your arms and legs until- “

“Calm down,” the courier interrupted, moving even closer to the bars. “Come with me, and I won’t do it.” He met the mutant’s eye, “I told you, I’m not with the old man. Even though I have the full ability to turn you into his slave…” he switched off his pipboy, “I’m not going to do it. Because I need you to _trust_ me.”

The beast stilled, studying the human with a wide eye. “No, you _don’t_ belong here… yet you’ve come this far, and I am not interested in remaining here any longer.” It reached behind its neck, pulling a rusty key from the heavy chain. “Very well… lead on.”


	3. Confronting the Past

Rolling behind an archway, the courier dove out from the blinding red cloud. Scrambling upright, pressing his back against the brick column, he fought for a desperate mouthful of clean air. He was lucky to find this balcony underpass, a breathable oasis amidst the crimson flooded street.

Empty shell casings clattered to the ground. Dropping new rounds into his emptied revolver, he risked a quick glace back down the street. Those raggedy sons of bitches had been tough to kill, had eaten most of his ammo – no matter how many bullets he put in them, those gas-masked ghosts had kept coming. Had he not had a pipboy to assist in targeting their limbs, he most certainly would’ve died.

No movement down the block, that must’ve been the last of them. Max sighed an exhausted sigh of relief, laughing softly to himself. Dropping the gun in his lap, he scrubbed his hands over his face. As he slowly opened his weary eyes, something caught his attention – a single white handprint among the red adobe brick. Directly below, crumpled in the corner of the archway, sat a lone little duffle bag. To his delight, someone had hidden away a stash of .357 bullets and Fancy Lads.

Perfectly spongy and sweet, the snack cakes were tasty as always. Still digging through the carton of cakes, he brought his pipboy to his face. According to the screen, he was getting close to collar 13. Elijah had told him where to find the first collar, the one digested by the mutant at the old police station, but had effectively left him in the dark with the others. Lost in a maze of adobe and blood-red cloud, he had no choice but to play _hot or cold_ with his pipboy, wandering around blindly until he found a stronger connection to the remaining collars.

Shoving another cake into his mouth, he poked his head around the other side of the pillar. No ghosties down the street, which was good. There was some kind of old bar at the end of the block; windows and door still intact, the building was noticeably free from the cloud – _might not be a bad place to start_ , he thought.

The heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind him, echoing throughout the empty building. Thick dust hung in the air, coating every surface in delicate gray sheets. A fully stocked bar sat against the near wall, sunbeams streaming in through the broken windows, casting colorful blooms through the array of bottles and crystal. Countless tables and chairs in a uniform stagger across the marble floor, untouched for centuries.

Though an eerie tomb to life before the bombs, the place showed signs of recent life. Through the dust caking the floor, trails of footprints to and from the bar. Atop the hardwood counter, an opened bottle of Scotch whiskey. The radio waves on his pipboy raced, hiking in frequency with every step – yes, this had to be the place.

_CLACK_

_Clack clack clack clackclackclackclack…_

A horrible racket erupted from upstairs. The echoing clatter of billiards balls.

Weaving between the maze of tables, the courier made his way to the staircase at the far end of the room. Step by step he ascended to the second floor, eyes sweeping across the room. More tables, more chairs; an old, burnt-out jukebox. Tall, ornate windows lined the far wall, streaming beams of blinding light through the dusty darkness. Against the sparkling glass, a lone silhouette, leaning over a pool table.

_Clack clackclack…_

The man made another shot, straightening from his hunched position. Back to the courier, without any acknowledgement, he continued to chalk his pool cue.

“As if on cue,” the man chuckled darkly, not bothering to turn around, “It would be just like the old man to send someone else to do his dirty work…” He sighed, audibly annoyed. “Whatever you’re here for – sorry, but no deal.”

As the man slowly turned, light washed over the edge of his face. Max could see it, an eyepatch, the end of a jagged scar peeking out from underneath. Long curly lochs gone grey, a once neat moustache overgrown into a messy beard. A man who once prided himself on his impeccable taste in pre-war suits, once dashing and stylish, now disheveled and sloppy – stuck in one of Elijah’s ratty jumpsuits. Holstered at his hip, a Sierra Madre security standard issue Smith and Wesson.

A sinister smile spread across his lips. “Ghosts walking the streets… hauntings of the past before a future reborn…” he laughed, “I should have known I’d find _you_ here. Suppose it was always going to come to this, wasn’t it.”

“Osgood?” Max breathed, incredulous.

Again, the man chuckled, “I haven’t been ‘Osgood’ for a long time, kid,” he turned back to the pool table, lining up another shot. “Not since Reno…”

“You _abandoned_ me.”

“I went back for the money; the money that _you_ left behind.”

“I’d been _shot!_ ”

_The explosion of dynamite. The screeching brakes on a runaway train. Gunfire and screaming, strewn bloody bodies of NCR soldiers…_

He'd called the man a father for years, blind to his continual betrayal. Using a lucky kid with a quick draw to rake in caps, talking him into a path of destruction. New Reno had been the end of their road, going up in flames with a heavily guarded NCR supply train. Gutshot, alone, with only a fraction of the score they'd been promised - he'd finally seen the through Leland's lies... and through all the jet the man had practically pushed on him. From cardshark to pickpocket to Reno pornstar, he'd been used and abused until he no longer had value.

_Clack clack clack…_

A moment passed, the other man said nothing. “What are you doing here?” he asked, “What is it you want?”

“What I _want_ ,” Max scoffed, “is to get the fuck out of here. Get this goddamn collar off my neck!”

“And how, exactly, are you going to go about doing that?”

The courier scrubbed a hand over his face. “Only option I see is to play along with the old man… for now.”

Another moment passed; Oz laughed darkly. “Sure kid, why didn’t I think of that. Please do try it, tell me how it goes…”

“Huh?”

He laughed again. “I didn’t come here alone, brought my crew with me.”

“Crew?”

“The boys I replaced you with after you quit on me. I helped a chain gang of NCR convicts break free, kill their guards – we made quite the team of professionals, scored lots of caps. We heard the radio broadcast, got lured in by that siren’s song… and we went along with the old man’s plan, ‘ _just for now_ ’. One by one we picked each other off, one less share to of the Madre’s wealth to divide.” He set the cue on the pool table, and strode slowly over to a nearby side table, retrieving a neglected glass of whiskey. Turning back to the younger man, he smiled brightly. “Now… we wear the collars, forced to play nicely with each other. Lay your eyes upon the Sierra Madre for yourself, and it’ll happen to you, too.”

His fingers clenched into fists. “Y- you’re wrong,” Max insisted. He pushed forward, staring down his former friend. “Like you said, we’re going to have to play _nice_ if we want to get out of this alive. We do what the old man wants, we get close to the Madre… and we wait for the chance to fuck him over.”

The other man laughed, sipping his drink. “Is that the best you could come up with, kid?”

“I don’t see any other choice… unless you want to stab me in the back like you did before, like you did to your ‘friends’, and have your collar explode.” The courier sprung forward, slapping the glass out of the older man’s hand, hearing it shatter across the darkened room’s floor. He stuck a finger in the man’s face, meeting his empty eyes, “You’re going to goddamn listen to me now! I’m not a fucking kid no more, and I’m the one with the fucking plan. Right now, we have to find two more collars – two more idiots like us – one on the west side of the villa and one on the east. You’re going to find one, and I’m gonna get the other. Then, we meet at the fountain, figure out the old man’s next steps… and how we’ll make them first.”


	4. Shattered Lives, Stolen Voices

Cocking his revolver, he rounded the corner. The hallway stretched on before him, dimly lit by flickering florescent ceiling lights. Cracked linoleum tile, chipped beige paint; the overpowering stench of mold, must, and rot. From somewhere deep within the halls, echoed a loudspeaker’s static, the continuous squeal of a mechanical drill.

He moved down the narrow corridor, stopping before the corner of a two-way split. He could hear the gentle hum of an approaching holographic patrolman echoing down the hall to the left. To the right, a large doorway, opening to another room. Diving behind the entryway, back pressed against the wall, the courier waited for the ghostly blue guard to pass around the corner.

Before he could release a sigh of relief, his eyes caught the other side of the room. Medical exam tables, partitioned into rows by foldable screens. Slumped across each table, a motionless mound of flesh – headless, blood-caked corpses lying discarded, out of sight and forgotten. A clinic built for community care reduced to a makeshift mausoleum.

Each of the bodies was wrapped in a matching battered jumpsuit, no doubt the prior victims of the deranged old man. His quest for the third collar had taken him to the luxury villa’s medical center, but the building seemed to house everything but the living. Pools of blood beneath headless victims, pale blue killing machines that flickered down the halls – why the hell was a hospital such a house of horrors?

Again, an electric drill echoed down the hall. A deep shudder rolled down his spine, and Max slowly rose to his feet. He turned to the wooden table he’d been hiding beside. Next to an old terminal sat a glistening kitchen knife; light seemed to roll across the blade’s beautiful angles, casting a rainbow down the reflective alloy. Beside it, a folded black catsuit, woven from protective padding and flexible mesh – undoubtedly a garment stitched for stealth.

Rolling back around the doorframe, he strode out into the halls. He leveled his pistol at the electrical panel jutting from the far wall, and fired. The lights flickered. The hologram guard vanished. The distant speaker silenced its interference. Surgical tools and mechanized drills stopped their ominous racket.

Slowly pushing down the maze of corridors before him, he passed countless identical examination rooms. They all sat empty, exam tables and medical machines collecting dust and cobwebs. Giant steel monoliths stood as centerpieces in each, automated doctors from before the bombs long since rusted shut.

As he reached the end of a long hallway, he froze – noise came from a room beside him, a repeated muffled banging. Beyond the door, pale blue light danced across the ceiling and floor; flashing neon lights encircled a semi-functional autodoc. From inside the chrome tomb, the pounding continued.

He holstered his revolver, hurrying over to the machine. With held breath, he slowly brought his hand up to the cool metal, and knocked against it. The pounding grew louder in response, becoming more and more frantic with each fist fall. _Collar 12_ , he thought, wondering who would’ve trapped them in here. _Wouldn’t make sense for Elijah to leave one of his “tools” stranded and useless…_

Pawing at the steel door, his fingers couldn’t find purchase, there was nothing to grip. The stupid thing looked like it was supposed to open and close on its own, meaning there was no manual release. When his eyes fell on the terminal jutting from the cylinder’s side, he groaned loudly.

Letters danced across the screen faster than he could process them, the entire monitor seemed to be consumed by a torrent of incomprehensible gibberish and symbols and coding. Sweat began to drip down his forehead, he pounded the keyboard furiously – not sure in the slightest what he was doing, praying hopelessly for _something_ to happen.

The pounding beside him grew more desperate. His typing grew more erratic, annoyed.

He smashed his fist against the keys in anger. The screen cut out. The machine’s flashing lights dimmed.

The door slid open. A woman collapsed out, falling to her knees, gasping for air.

Ragged, gasping breathing echoed through the ruined room. The woman sat hunched over a battered chair in the corner, knuckles white, fingers clinging tight to the frayed cushion beneath her.

She’d run from him after he’d opened the operating machine, scrambling down the hall in a desperate attempt to escape. She practically tumbled down the stairs after finding her way through the maze of halls, scrambling to her knees across what was once a wide pre-war waiting room. Max stopped in the doorway, holding his hands up defensively, trying to show him he meant her no harm. He watched as she dragged herself into a chair, glaring him down with anger and unease.

He wished he had his trusty number 13 canteen so he could offer her a drink of water – do _something_ to help her calm down. He knew there was little else he could do for her. All he could do was give her space, let her come to reality on her terms.

She looked horrible. A sweat stained tank top clung to her thin body, battered and bloodied. An angry pattern of surgical scars wrapped around her shaved scalp, jagged stitches trailing from her lips to her throat. Eyes wide open, darting across the empty room, she looked like she hadn’t slept in days. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop shivering; couldn’t control her ragged breathing.

With a reluctant sigh, he slunk behind the decayed reception desk. Nothing but tattered scraps of paperwork and office supplies across the table – _disappointing…_ Opening a drawer, his fingers found the scratchy static of musty cotton, a worn and threadbare throw blanket. _Less disappointing,_ he supposed, ‘ _least it’s something._

His boots padded back across the floor. He flung the blanket across her shoulders. She flinched violently as the fabric touched her skin, jerking away from the man; eyes burning into his. Max again put his hands up defensively, awkwardly grimacing a silent “sorry”. He backed away from her, moving towards the opposite wall. Finding a mirroring row of chairs, he dropped himself into a seat across from the woman.

“You okay, ma’am?” he piped eventually, voice wavering.

The woman frowned, visibly deflating. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t croak together more than a few ragged breaths. Her fingers traced the stitches up her throat.

 _Damn_ , he thought, with a sympathetic sigh. “That autodoc fuck you up? Can’t talk?”

No response. She continued to glare at him.

He gulped nervously. “L-look,” he protested, “I didn’t stick you in that thing… I was just sent to get you out.” He grasped at the shackle encasing his neck, “See these stupid iron dog collars? They’re rigged to go _boom_. If one of us dies, be both die… I’m a captive just like you. We gotta do what that old man says.”

She stiffened at the mention of Elijah. Again, she tried to speak, but was unable to rasp out words. The courier watched as she gestured urgently with her hands, a blank expression across his face. Only when he smiled awkwardly did it become clear that her rescuer was an idiot. Rolling her eyes, she drew an exaggerated finger across her throat.

“… What, you wanna kill the old man?”

She nodded, increasingly exasperated.

“Well, shit, me too!” he laughed, “I’ll tell you what, I just want to get the hell outta here. You help me ditch this collar, and I’ll let you have the honor of gutting him yourself.”

She sat still for a long moment, never dropping her gaze, before nodding slowly.

He smiled and pulled one of his pistols, throwing it across the expanse of room for her to catch.

“Here,” he said, “I’ll find another one.”

Catching the gun with ease, she swiveled the cylinder outward, running a thumb across the neat grouping of bullets.

“Given the circumstances, I think I can trust you not to plug me with that, right?” he joked, pointing to their respective bomb collars.

Eyeing him warily, she rose to her feet. He watched her head for the door, angry – head down, shoulders tense, her hands clenched into murderous fists.


	5. A Reluctant Partnership

The street below was unbreathable, the dense wall of bloody cloud suffocating the narrow adobe alleyways. Between airy wisps of impenetrable mist, shone the bright green eyes of the villa’s doomed; the rag clad husks that wandered the streets, forever unkillable, unending in number.

He looked down upon them from the balcony walkway. With a smug sneer, he flicked the ashy stub of his cigar down upon the shambling army of dead. Combing fingers down his overgrown beard, he chuckled softly to himself. Long ago, words had been his weapon of choice, but after all these years he’d learned to shoot first and leave the charm for later. Unlike people, however, those ghost-like bastards could take a lot more than simple pistol fire. Given this, in all the time he’d been trapped in the villa, he’d gone out of his way to remain hidden, avoiding the undead inhabitants by any means necessary.

Of course, the same could be said for the villa’s other inhabitant. Aside from the shambling ghosts and patrolling holograms, there was another like him who slunk through the shadowy streets at night. In the weeks Leland had been trapped in the Madre, he hadn’t actually seen this person face-to-face, only catching glimpses of someone else fleeing from packs of ghosts – trailing across the rooftops, disappearing into thick patches of cloud.

 _He must be the one the old man wants,_ he surmised. It seemed safe to assume this slippery unknown was the same individual leaving beartraps and landmines around to combat the ghosts, leaving little caches of ammo and food around the town for himself. Whoever this person was, he’d obviously been here a while, and he knew the streets well. _Cunning. Calculating. Cowardly._

Though he’d never met the stranger in person, he was sure he was in the right place. The residential district of town had been where most of his stranger sightings had been, where most of the white-handprint marked supply stashes had been found. So when he had looked out across the rooftops, seeing a distant string of decorative lights strung up in what should’ve been a long-abandoned apartment building, he knew he’d found a hideout – granted, a poorly hidden one. _Paranoid. Overconfident; but blind to minor details…_

He followed the stairwell up through the crumbling complex, ascending to its highest floor.

He pushed the apartment door open. It swung inward with an agonizing creak, slowly sweeping across the decrepit room.

The far wall had been blown wide open, exposing the room to the frigid night sky. Dangling down from above the crater-sized window, the giveaway string of colorful lightbulbs.

Two plush lounge chairs sat with their backs to the door, facing out the crumbling wall. While the right-side chair sat empty, someone was already waiting in the left. He sat still in the relative darkness, even as he heard the door behind him creak open; the edges of a peeling skull highlighted by the dull glow of the colorful lights.

“The Sierra Madre…” a dry voice sighed, “a beauty, isn’t she.” Without turning his head, he lifted a hand towards the empty seat, motioning for him to sit down. “Please, have a seat,” he chuckled, “and let’s chat.”

As he lowered himself into the seat, Oz took a moment to finally study his elusive opponent. The ghostly man looked like the wasteland personified – a relic from the old world; battered, rotten, forgotten. Behind the darkened aviator sunglasses and soiled tuxedo, dried clumps of putrid flesh clung to a withered skeletal frame. Though looking of hell and reeking of decay, he still held himself upright. One leg crossed over the other, martini glass in hand, he sat poised and posh in his plush chair as though attending an opera, watching a nonexistent performance in the empty courtyard below. Around his throat, a blinking metal collar.

“She the one who invited you here, the siren song on the radio?” asked the withered ghoul, chin held high. An overly-pronounced English accent rolled off his every syllable, as if he was projecting the last threads of his decayed pride. “You’re the tourist that’s survived the longest, hmm? Seemed to have made short work of the entourage you arrived with,” he chuckled darkly, “Try anything with me, make any sudden movements, and that chair will get _real_ uncomfortable… the cushion’s just for show."

 _Of course_. Oz couldn’t help but laugh. “This better be a shaped charge I’m sitting on,” he smiled, “otherwise you’ll smear both of us across the walls.”

The ghoul chuckled again, “Sounds like you’ve done some blue-collar construction work in your life, your Ma must be proud,” he joked, before regaining his composure. Stiffening straight, turning to face the other man, he continued, “Still… get up without my permission, I’ll blast your ass so far through your head, it’ll turn the moon cherry pie red. So – lets keep this sweet and polite, and finish our conversation with no misunderstandings.”

Oz shifted in his seat, mirroring the man’s pose, leaning back and crossing one leg. He eyed the collar around the man’s throat.

“Of course,” Oz smiled, “I’ll save any questions for the end – please, continue.”

The ghoul tipped his head back, an laughed softly to himself. “And that’s what I’ve missed – a rapt audience,” he muttered to himself. With a smile, he lifted the martini glass to his putrid lips, sipping down a mouthful of emulsified sludge, reeking heavily of vodka. “Just because I work in entertainment, I’m not an idiot. I heard my necktie beeping,” he said, pointing to his collar with a stern gaze, “I know what this means – I’m part of this, somehow. I want out of this contract… and if you put me in it, I’m not going to be too happy. So whatever’s going on here, if you’re a part of all this? You’re taking orders from me.”

Now it was Leland’s turn to laugh. Clasping his hands together, he smiled, “Of course, friend! I’m willing to comply.”

“That so?” he eyed him.

“You’ve been here so much longer than me, friend. You have to know this place better than I. By all means, please, lead on, sir.”

The ghoul continued to eye the man, “You’re being much friendlier to me than you were to your last friends… what’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he insisted, “our ‘neckties’ that you mentioned? They’re linked – you die, I die. I’m a pawn in the old man’s game, same as you.”

“… That’s an _interesting_ clause, real bad contract you have,” He visibly stiffened, “… _We_ have.”

The old conman scrubbed a hand over his face, wearily. “Look, at this point, I just want to get out of here… I’ve killed too many friends; know now I’m fucked here on my own. Hell, if you’re the one who’s been leaving those supply caches everywhere then I’m sure you know what you’re doing!” he smiled. “The old man wants us to meet the rest of the team at the fountain, where he’ll have us break into the casino. I’ll help you get inside, and we’ll split whatever’s in there, just the two of us – if you help me ditch this collar and kill the old man. Whatdya say, partner?”

A moment passed. The ghoul smiled brightly behind his shades.

“Sure, partner!” he laughed, “If you’re really the errand boy for who I think, I’d rather have you on my side… an ace in the hole.” He gulped down the rest of his slushy “drink” and continued, “So long as you stay by my side and watch my back. I know what’s out there - holograms, ghosts, nasty pockets of cloud – and I will not be going anywhere without protection.”

The other man chuckled, “Of course. Like I said, our lives are linked. And I don’t know about you, but I think we should keep our pretty faces on our shoulders,” he joked, “You lead the way, and leave the ghost killing to me. You’re the one with the most experience navigating these streets.”

The ghoul nodded in response, trying to suppress a sly smile.

“Oosterman, Eustace Oosterman,” he introduced himself, extending a firm hand. _Laughing to himself at his on-the-fly choice of name._

The ghoul met the handshake, “Domino, Dean Domino.”

_Sucker…_ they each thought to themselves, looking the other in the eye.


	6. Shattered Lives, Stolen Voices Pt. 2

He felt the lock give, wrenching open with a soft click. Pistols drawn, the pair slithered into the quiet kitchen. The heavy steel door shut softy behind them, they waited in silence for the small horde to wander past.

They’d heard the gasmasked ghosts coming towards them down the main street as they reached the end corner of a narrow alleyway. Knowing they’d be boxed in, they had no choice but to quickly backtrack, duck hurriedly into the closest building.

Hearing the pack of scuffling footsteps shuffle past the door, they made their way around the large counter, and slipped into the main room. Dusty glass tables, a burnt-out jukebox, rusted monolithic espresso machines jutting from the wall – the old café sat abandoned, frozen in time, never having seen its grand opening or upscale clientele. Across the tiny dining room, through an expansive front windowpane, a pair of dim streetlights flooded the room with a hazy beam, casting oblong shadows from the tables back towards the kitchen; outside, the main street appeared free of gasmasks or cloud.

“Road ahead looks clear,” he muttered to his companion, peering out through the cracked and hazy glass.

He heard a grunt of acknowledgment from behind him. Looking back over his shoulder, the courier watched the scarred woman scan her eyes across the room. Her eyes darted from the busted jukebox in the far corner of the dining room, to the fancy golden vending machine near the kitchen door… and she hummed to herself with what sounded like curiosity.

Kneeling down before the once-musical machine, she reached back and pulled a multitool from a deep cargopant pocket. Before he could question what she was doing, he was watching her tear into the old world relic, digging through circuitry for useful scrap; with a strained grunt, she hauled a blocky hunk from out of the wreckage.

Usually, Max himself would be the first to admit that he knew jack fucking shit about scavenging machinery – _something_ _Eddie liked to rib him about to no end_ – but from the way she was wiring it to other bits of scrap metal, he could only assume it was some kind of battery.

“The fuck are you doing?” he asked slowly.

She glanced up at him, rolling her eyes. With an exasperated sigh, she collected her bits of gathered scrap – all metal washers of varying gauge. Rising to her feet, she paced over to the glistening vending machine and thumbed the makeshift chips into the coin slot.

The machine released a low rumbling whirr from within its depths. With a hiss, a large tray ejected from its front, protruding itself outward. From where he was standing, he could see the drawer was filled with guns and ammo and supplies.

“Hot fucking _damn_ ,” he muttered to himself with a low whistle, watching the woman retrieve a large sniper rifle for herself. Apparently Elijah hadn’t been kidding when he described the vending machines as gold mines, a ceaseless bounty of all one could ask for. From the look of it, with a handful of special Madre chips (or jury-rigged bits of garbage) they could arm themselves with everything they needed to survive the villa. “You’re a goddamn genius!”

The beginnings of a sly smile dared cross the woman’s lips. After locking a magazine into her weapon, she reached back down into the drawer, and tossed a pistol his way. She grunted a hurried _‘here’_ , eyes downcast, obviously trying to replace the one he’d leant her.

He caught the piece neatly, and tucked it into his belt like the other. Turning to his side, he plucked a dusty fedora from an old hat rack adjacent to the window. A small plume of dust sprayed forth as he beating it harshly across a pant leg; he donned the hat with a shit-eating grin, giving the woman an exaggerated hat tip and wink to thank her for the gesture. Once again, she answered him with rolled eyes.

He watched her arm herself, retrieving numerous extra rifle magazines and simpacks, and even one of those sparkly cosmic kitchen knives. She handled the rifle with ease, racking the bolt with great force, murder burning bright behind her eyes.

“If I can ask,” he found himself blurting out before he could stop himself, knowing he was potentially venturing into dangerous territory, “why the hell do you want to kill the old man? There more to it than the collars?”

Her hands stilled, she visibly stiffened. She lifted her head and met his gaze, eyes narrowing.

He gulped nervously.

She put the rifle down, and raised her hands before her. She began gesturing wildly… something about an army?... with a sword and circles?... big hulking soldiers with giant helmets?...

Shrugging in visible confusion, he shot her a pitiful smile.

She rubbed her temples, clearly frustrated. She made a different set of gestures; adjustments to a rifle scope, a dramatic salute, a finger across her throat…

“… You’re a sniper? A mercenary?” he asked quizzically, “A hit-man? Hired to kill him?”

She moved her head from side to side in thought before nodding curtly, as if saying _‘close enough’._

“Well there’s more to it, right? I mean, I don’t want to pry, but this shit seems pretty personal…”

A second passed, and her slight scowl confirmed his suspicion. She nodded slowly, putting a delicate hand over her heart. Suddenly, with an angry frown, she brought her hands together – before ripping them quickly apart.

“… You guys were together… and he left you?”

She shook her head, and again repeated her pantomime of pulling her hands apart – this time following the motion with a divisive slash between where her fists had been.

Max stared dumbfounded. “… You had someone else… and he drove you apart?”

Her eyes fell to the floor, she nodded slowly.

“Boyfriend?” he ventured.

She shook her head.

“Husband?”

She visibly recoiled, as if disgusted by the thought.

He raised an eyebrow. “Girlfriend?”

She stiffened, and again, her eyes met his. He could tell she had elected not to answer him, opting to instead glare him down.

Noting her silence, he went on. “More than that… she a partner, a lover?”

Lifting the battered hat, Max ran a hand through his hair. “Look, no judgement from me,” he began, huffing a sympathetic sigh, “I know what it’s like – to be judged… for who you love… Whoever she was, I’m sure she meant the world to you, more than just a ‘girlfriend’. People are the only thing we got in this fucked up world – you should spend the short time you’ve got with those you care for, no matter what anyone else thinks.” The woman’s stony glare softened, and he continued, “I understand love is something worth fighting for – especially when it’s taken from you. So,” he chuckled, “like I said, you wanna gut the old man yourself, I’ll be more than happy to lend a hand.”

The bald woman nodded slowly, something deep and reflective in her eyes. Waving her hand towards the vending machine drawer, she motioned for the courier to take a turn stocking up on stimpacks and bullets.

Guns drawn, the pair slipped through the front glass door, and disappeared down the empty streets.


End file.
